The Adventures of Darien, the Cynical Bagger
by The Lone Pig
Summary: The (mis) adventures of Darien, the cynical bagger.
1. Orange Sunkist and Peanut M&Ms

I posted this fic on the SMRFF egroups list, hence it has several "in"  
jokes and some abbreviations.   
ML = Mailing List  
WAFF = warm and fuzzy feeling  
Usa-day = Usagi's bday! I wrote this fic in commemoration  
  
Greetings minna! I found out about Usa-day they other day and realized.  
.. golly, I don't have anything to write... And then I remembered that   
idea that I had sent to Meredith and said... golly, I can do that.  
And so here it is... TLP's first venture into the realm of Usa-day and   
comedic fanfiction.  
  
So sit back, listen to the deep, sexy voice of Darien as he unravels   
the mysteries of really what goes on inside a grocery store. Open yours  
elf a package of WAFFers and start to munch, and I hope it doesn't get   
to sweet for you...  
  
  
Orange Sunkist and Peanut M&Ms: A WAFFy fic of first love  
PG  
Comedy, Alternate Reality  
The Lone Pig  
thelonepig@hotmail.com  
  
  
Salutations to you, listener. My name is Darien and I work at a local   
grocery store as what one would call a 'courtesy clerk'. Oy... yea, I   
hear you "Isn't that the same thing as a bagger?" Yes, well technically   
it is but look at the negative connotations found in the word bagger.   
First, the word does not roll off your tongue, it's more of a spat,   
like trying to spit out a bad M&M... And second, just think of the   
word... "bagger." What is the first thing that comes to your mind?   
Someone who "bags things." Well, that's not the only thing we do, I'll   
have you know... who else would sweep the floors, clean the bathrooms,   
empty the garbage, and make fun of you behind your back? Did I say   
that last one out loud? Oops... silly me. But it's true. Next time   
you walk into a grocery store, try to look at everything through the   
eyes of an employee. No offense, but you customers sure are baka.  
  
Recently I was offered a position in the as-of-yet unexisting day-time   
freight crew. We were to be a "team, through whose forces combined,   
kept the store in tip-top peachy-keen shape and constantly looking good.  
" I hate the store owner's son. He's that guy that smiles at his   
customers and curses at his employees. "New is the only good.   
Everything must be new and we must appeal to *waves fingers as per   
parentheses* generation X." Nobody likes him, but everybody has to   
tolerate him. He'd be kinda like David Duchovny, if Mr. Duchovny   
weren't so good looking.  
  
Ah... but I digress. Why is it exactly that you customers are baka?   
Well, to begin with, your driving is atrocious. You know what those   
yellow lines in the parking lot are for, don't you? And what's with   
the braking for customers, gassing for employees thing? You realize   
I've been hit three times? And you know what happens every time? The   
owners' stupid son asks me if I'm alright and tells me that I can't sue   
them, due to some oddball clause in my contract that he can quote word   
for word. And then he sends me back to work, bruised, beaten, and   
broken. There's another one of my pet peeves... how is it that you can   
look at an employee who is trying his hardest to even smile through   
the obvious pain he is enduring from the six inch gash in his side,   
and politely ask "How are you today?" IT'S DARN TOOTIN' OBVIOUS HOW   
I'M DOING, I'M FREAKING IN A LOT OF PAIN! But that's beside the point,   
you probably want to know something interesting, right. I mean, after   
all, I wasn't invited here by my good friend TLP to rant and rave about   
customer antics or anything. Well, let's see, you are all rabid fans   
of Sailor Moon romance. I know! I'll tell you about how I first met   
Serena, that ought to keep you happy... or at least somewhat preoccupied   
from trying to rip off my pants...  
  
It all started two months ago today...  
  
You must first know a few things about me though. I was really   
popular as a kid. Elementary school was great, and I even got along   
with the kids in Junior High. The entire school knew me on a first-  
name basis. But then tragedy struck, and my parents were killed in a   
car accident. It wasn't their fault, they were broadsided by a man   
who had been drinking heavily. I disappeared from school for two weeks,  
and turned in to my own emotions, not speaking nor listening to any   
of those around me. I lost many friendships that way, but they could   
not understand what I was going through. When I finally did return to   
school, I was deemed as the reclusive one. Treated as a hermit and an   
outcast, I found myself eating alone. My grades slumped because my   
self-image had fallen.  
  
High school turned out much the same way. My Sophomore year I was   
ostracized by everyone. But when signing up for my Junior year, I   
stumbled across something that changed my life forever. I was required   
to take a class during my fifth hour block, but couldn't find one that   
I wanted to take. It was a toss-up between a plethora of physical   
education "mini-hells" and classes I had already taken. I was standing   
in line for "Fitness for Life: Bowling for Credit", when a brightly   
painted sign caught my eye. It said, "Technical Theatre, now for   
course credit. Sign up now!"  
  
Well, anything had to be better than physical education, ne? I left   
my place near the front of the crowded line I was occupying, and   
waltzed past a hundred people to the vacant table. I slid my add   
sheet to the man behind the desk, who looked at me with an odd look   
on his face. "Young man," he said to me, "the line for physical   
education is over there." He gestured to the line I had just vacated...  
  
"No sir," I replied. "I saw your sign." I pointed to the mutli-  
colored poster.  
  
The man changed instantly. He signed me up on the spot, and I walked   
away happy, forgetting about my school schedule the moment I left the   
crowded gymnasium. I didn't think once about that class all summer   
long. And then came the first day of school. I received my class   
schedule and looked it over. Pre-Calculus... Junior Honors English...   
History of Democracy... An Introduction to Basket-Weaving (what?)...   
Set Design...  
  
Set Design? What the heck was that? I had no idea what I was in for...   
but that is another story entirely, now isn't it. I know many of you   
SMRFFers are or once were in set design, and I'd be more than happy to   
share my stories with you at a later time.  
  
Working there in the technical theatre class, painting sets and   
hectically guiding actors like the lost sheep that they are, I   
discovered something. I had quite a sense of humor. That, and I'm   
incredibly attractive and girls love me...  
  
But from that time on, I decided I'd be a friend to everyone and not   
care about my situations. After all, if I couldn't make fun of myself,   
how was I ever to allow myself to make fun of the actors as much as I   
did. Well, without feeling guilty, that is.  
  
It was nearing the end of my Junior year when I finally received a   
call from a local supermarket offering me a job. I greatfully accepted   
it, having been on a job hunt for over two months. And that is how I   
came to work in a grocery store. I dare say, if it weren't for the   
fact that I began working there, then I wouldn't have met Serena, and   
wouldn't be talking to any of you here today...  
  
*winks at ML, who has been enthralled not by the story, but by Darien's   
looks the entire time*  
*ML faints*  
  
And now that you know where my attitude in life comes from, I suppose   
I can continue on with the story.  
  
I absolutely hate taking customers out to their cars. Especially the   
annoying ones. Often, I try to slip up in some small unnoticable way,   
just to upset them when they reach their next destination. A   
watermelon on top of their eggs, for instance. Or placing their bread   
underneath a large bag of rock salt. Occasionally, I will even loosen   
the lid on their milk slightly, allowing it to leak all over their   
trunk. I realize it is wrong of me to do these things, but it's my   
own silent protest. They get home and say, "golly, that guy didn't   
take very good care of my groceries. I must have been really rude to   
have deserved such treatment." Actually, that's a blatant lie... a   
real customer would not even bother opening his or her trunk to even   
retrieve the groceries, before calling my management and complaining   
as to how their eggs were crushed, their bread flat, or their milk   
leaking... Some people just don't understand.  
  
It was on a sunny day nearly two months ago that I was busy bussing a   
customer out to her car. Technically, I was supposed to be working in   
the back room, but the management had once again managed not to   
schedule enough employees for the day. I squinted at the bright sun   
as I walked out of the store, pushing a full cart before me. As   
expected, traffic stopped for the woman in front of me, and began   
again the moment I stepped in front of it.  
  
With a deftness that matched Danny Kaye's sense of humor, I dodged the   
ferocious traffic and jogged to catch up to the customer before me. I   
was plotting what I would do to this customer, when a gal walked past.   
Her hair was done up in twin odango, and cascaded down into two of the   
longest pigtails I had ever seen. I whistled a cat-call as she walked   
past, and she turned her nose up in the air in a snotty little pout.  
  
And then a funny thing happened. I was just placing a six-pack of   
Sunkist pop into the customer's trunk when one of the cans mysteriously   
sprung a leak, shooting inside the trunk with a ferocity matched only   
by David Duchovny's addiction for pornography.  
  
I panicked and flipped the cans around, aiming the orange, carbonated   
spray away from myself and the car's upholstery. In turning the spray   
around, it just so happened that I managed to hit the girl that I had   
just cat-called. I grimaced first, then grinned wickedly as she shot   
me the "Look."  
  
Her clean white blouse and blue jeans were now doused in a sticky,   
orange mess. I couldn't help but laugh. She looked feriously at me,   
but wasn't going to allow herself to be defeated and continued for the   
store in a huff.  
  
The soda had run out of power, and I quickly deposited into the   
customer's car, and shut the trunk. I flipped the cart around and   
rode it back to the store, nearly colliding with several cars in the   
way. Didn't they realize that I had right-of-way?  
  
I walked back into the store and threw the cart across the foyer,   
where it slid right into place at the beginning of one of the rows. I   
turned and walked into the store, or at least that was my intention.   
A large, heavy object blocked my way. I looked up, directly into my   
manager's frowning face.  
  
"Darien," he told me sternly. "We need to talk."  
  
He grabbed my arm and led me quickly into the manager's office. I   
waved to the front-end manager and all of the checkers as I was hauled   
bodily across the store front. This had to be embarrasing to my   
manager, but oh well... he brought it on himself, ne?  
  
The smile on my face disappeared the minute I stepped into the office.   
Standing there was a very perturbed, very orange, odangoed female. I   
gulped hard. Something told me this day had just taken a bad turn.  
  
A few hours later, I found myself out back, scrubbing the cement   
underneath the trash compactor...  
  
*ML sighs at the thought of Darien, stooping to such a level as   
washing garbage from cement...*  
  
It took me a good four showers to get the smell out...  
  
*ML drools at the thought of Darien in the shower*  
  
And it was at that time that I realized something very important. I   
had never liked work before, which would explain my rude behaviour.   
But having been demoted to such a level as to scrub garbage from   
someplace that it's supposed to be truly upset me about my job... And   
that got me thinking.  
  
I enjoy walking in the rain. I don't know where I picked that up from,   
perhaps it was from when my parents died. The rain always makes me   
think, and masks my own tears. But when I walk, alone, down the   
abandoned streets in the middle of a storm, I can think with a clear   
mind and not bother with the events around me.  
  
But it was on that particular night, in that particular rain, that I   
realized something. I didn't care about my job in the slightest!   
Watch them fire me! See if I care! My eyes began to narrow, and I   
swear if anyone had been looking at me at that time, they would have   
seen a faint red glow in them, very reminiscent of what one would call   
a "bat out of hell."  
  
And you know, from that day to this, I don't think I've ever done   
anything at that store by the rules. A few months ago, when this new   
manager came in, a lot of things changed. To begin with, we are now   
required to address the customers over the PA system before we say whate  
ver important thing it is that we need to say. Generally, a very   
depressed voice will sound over the system and mumble something   
incoherent like "Attention shoppers, thank you for shopping with us   
today," followed by whatever it was that they needed.  
  
Well, I took it on myself to liven these announcements up. In the   
process, I discovered a very strange thing... I couldn't be fired!   
"Hoi, Darien! Call Humperdinck to the back, would ya?" Humperdinck   
is the name we use to make fun of the manager. "Sure," I yell back,   
grinning wickedly and running over to the phone. The first time I   
ever cracked out the PA system, I got a few snickers. And a LOT of   
good commentary from other employees. It seems that I could do   
something none of them had the guts to do...  
  
The PA system crackled loudly as I spoke into the receiver on that day...  
"Attention shoppers. We appreciate you shopping with us today. If   
you weren't shopping with us, then you'd be somewhere else. We   
appreciate the fact that you have chosen to shop here. Without your   
continued support through the years, we would not be able to exist in   
the facet that we do now. If there's anything at all we can do to   
make your shopping experience better, please: don't hesitate to ask   
our manager Humper... er... Robert Bischoff, he'd be glad to help.   
If you'd prefer to be anonymous in your commentary of our store, feel   
free to fill out one of the forms at our service desk. Thank you for   
shopping with us today... and remember, if it wasn't for your money,   
we wouldn't be here. Humperdi... er... Robert, would you come to the   
back please? Robert, to the back room."  
  
From that day onward, the moment that PA system crackled, employees all   
over the store would stop to listen in hopes it was another one of my   
tongue-in-cheek ads. Golly, I'd never felt so welcomed in my life.  
  
Several weeks later, I met that girl again. I was sitting in the back,   
playing around when I should have been working and generally making a   
fool of myself, when my manager's voice crackled over the speakers.   
"Attention shoppers, thank you for shopping with us today." The man   
has no sense of style... "Darien, come to the service desk, Darien, to  
the service desk." I shouted back obtrusively at the speaker system.   
"NO!" However, after a few minutes, I decided that I had nothing   
better to do and meandered up to the front counter. I whistled the   
theme to Robin Hood -- you know, the one from the old Disney cartoon   
about the fox -- and strolled up an aisle, both hands behind my head,   
and my arms outstretched. I spotted my manager behind the service   
desk and walked out in front of several customers, nearly getting   
myself run over in the process. When would those customers ever learn?   
They should watch where they are walking.  
  
I made it up to the manager and coughed my presence. He turned around   
and smiled. That meant he wanted something and didn't think I'd do it.   
I eyed him warily and said nothing. He cleared his throat and stepped   
aside, revealing a blond, odangoed female. The smile on her face fell   
the moment she saw me. "Darien," said my manager, unoblivious to the   
whole situation before him. The man is as dense as Leonardo Dicaprio   
is shallow. "This is Serena, she starts work today. Will you give her   
a quick tour of the store?"  
  
"What? I'm going to be shown around by him?" Her face moved into a   
pout and she crossed her arms.  
  
I couldn't contain myself further. "Odango Atama!" And then to my   
manager. "I refuse." But my manager gave me that look that only   
managers can give. That look that says you're hanging by a thread...   
kinda like Drew Barrymore's career after E.T. And I found myself   
giving a tour of the back room to the same girl I sprayed with a leaky   
can of Sunkist not one week previous.  
  
I don't remember being overly upset after work that day, but my   
roommate Andrew says that for the next week it was impossible to live   
around me. But in any case, Andrew and his girlfriend Mina noticed my   
sulken behaviour and took it upon themselves to get me out of the   
house. They started bringing over some of the oddest girls. They were   
all bubbly, and most of them couldn't even walk straight. There was   
one gal, I swear that she hit anybody she walked past, her hips swayed   
back and forth so much... but I have never been one for being set up   
and made it my priority to be on my absolute worst behaviour in front   
of each girl. Once again, I could go off forever on the different   
things that I did in each circumstance, but I just don't have the time.   
I'd be glad to tell any of you lovely ladies later though...  
  
And that uncovers yet another one of my petpeeves. I happen to have a   
fairly close-knit group of friends that I can be around. They aren't   
exactly the kind of people I can really talk to or depend on, but it's   
just fun on occasion to get out and do things. Well, most of them had   
recently found girlfriends. I hadn't yet. Obviously, I felt a little   
left out. My friends noticed that and tried their best to still   
include me in their activities.  
  
But you know, I just don't like being the "third wheel," so to speak.   
For some odd reason, there always seems to be some disaster or another   
that occurs from my being along. Last weekend, for example, I was   
invited along as the... let's see... ninth wheel. Basically, I was   
without a date on a four-couple date. We went to go see the new   
Mission Impossible flick. Unfortunately, that involved a thirty-minute   
drive to the nearest decent theatre.  
  
Well, the ride there I was pretty much ignored. I wish I could say   
the same thing about the ride back, but other things decided to happen.   
Basically, the movie finished and I sat back to listen to the song   
playing through the ending credits. It's something my friends and I   
always used to do... but apparently nobody decided to tell me that we   
didn't anymore. I looked around to find myself the only one in the   
theatre. When I ran outside, I only discovered that my friends had   
already left.  
  
Do you know how embarrasing it is trying to call neighbors or relatives   
at midnight to drive thirty minutes to pick you up because your friends   
left you? Needless to say, I haven't done too much with them as of   
late... and I probably won't until I find a good girl that I can   
settle down with somewhat.  
  
The one time I did find a gal I was interested in asking out turned   
out to be an interesting experience. Want to hear?  
  
*ML nods profusely, hoping for some good Serena/Darien WAFF*  
  
I was walking up to the front desk, when this gal walked in. She was   
wearing a white blouse and this short plaid, pleated skirt. That's my   
weakness, pleats...  
  
*half the ML stands and leaves for a minute, only to return in skirts   
of their own. Darien clears his throat, blushes, and begins on the   
story again*  
  
So anyway, I decided to *ahem* face the aisles that she just happened   
to be walking down. Many of you would call this stalking, but I'll   
have you know, I was just protecting my interests. So I faced, and I   
watched. And I faced, and I watched. And I faced... and I lost her.   
Where had she gone? I meandered into the backroom to sulk, and   
happened to run into my roommate Andrew on the way. He was reading   
magazines with his girlfriend Mina.  
  
"Hey Darien," he greeted.  
  
"Oh, hey Andrew, what are you up to?" I replied, taking the opportunity   
to avoid work all the longer.  
  
"Not much, just reading magazines. Have you seen the reviews for the   
new Resident Evil game? It looks soooooo cool."  
  
We made idle chit-chat about video games and upcoming anime when she   
walked by. Her hips waggled back and forth, and her skirt swayed in   
unison. It was truly a site to behold. I told Andrew that I had been   
following her and wouldn't mind asking her out... he replied by giving   
Mina a playful kick.  
  
"Isn't that your cousin? You should introduce them..."  
  
"Introduce? But Andrew, she's only fourteen..."  
  
I felt more like a pedaphile at that time than I had ever before...  
  
*ML laughs at Darien's torture. It is several minutes before they   
settle down enough to begin once again to pay attention to Darien's   
story.*  
  
... and there I was facing the aisle filled with "those", face bright   
red, and feeling like a complete fool, when a rather large, imposing-  
looking woman turned her cart and began walking towards me. "Young man,  
what are you doing here?" she said to me. "Uh... nothing, ma'am?"   
"Hmm..." she muttered under her breath. "Little pervert..." I haven't   
been on that aisle since...  
  
The other problem I have at work is with clean-up. Do you know what   
the worst things are to clean up? Molasses, oil, and "those"...   
please, just don't ask any questions about that last. I still recall   
that incident in my nightmares... Well, I was sitting in the back,   
working as hard as I usually do, when I get the obligatory call of   
"Darien, clean up on aisle two." Aisle two? Aisle two has notepaper,   
school supplies, cards, and candy... what in the world could provide   
for a clean up? I suppose I had thought too soon. I turned onto aisle   
two, armed with a broom and a dustpan.  
  
The floor was literally covered in M&Ms. I had trouble seeing any of   
the white tile beneath the blue, brown, green, orange, red, and yellow   
candy-colored shells... that day, M&Ms just took an entirely different   
taste. I decided I would never eat another peanut M&M in my life.   
Standing in the direct center, holding a once-filled case of peanut   
M&Ms was the new girl, Serena. "Don't move!" I said, wincing at the   
thought of having crushed M&Ms to pick up. She wailed back.   
  
"I'm sorry! It was slow up front and I just wanted to help... the   
bottom of the box broke open and the bags all split open when they hit   
the floor! Gomen ne..."  
  
"Gomen ne?" I said back questioningly.  
  
"Yea," she replied. "It's Japanese for..."  
  
"...I'm sorry." We finished in unison.  
  
"You know Japanese too?" she asked smiling.  
  
"Hai..." I stuttered back in amazement. I flushed for a moment when I   
realized that I was staring at her with my jaw hanging open. Then I   
quickly began to sweep all of the M&Ms into one pile. Serena ducked   
down and did her best to scoop what she could into the box she had been   
holding. It took a few minutes to get everything together and picked   
up, and I discarded the broom in favor of picking up the stragglers by   
hand. Serena was helping as well.  
  
The M&Ms quickly disappeared. Brown, I grabbed it. Blue, hers.   
Yellow, mine. Green, hers. Red, mine... and hers. Our hands   
overlapped on the candy-shelled, chocolate covered peanut that melts   
in your mouth, not in your hand. I looked at her, and she at me. I   
lost myself for a moment in her deep blue eyes. She stared right back   
into my eyes. And then she pulled her hand away and blushed. I   
hesitated a moment before picking up the last M&M and deposited it in   
the box.  
  
I picked up the box. "I'll go throw this in the garbage," I announced   
hesitantly. She nodded, her face still a little red. I turned to   
leave... and the bottom of the box fell out again. M&Ms fell in a   
waterfall and once again covered the floor. I sighed. Serena laughed.  
  
And after that day, work became an awful lot more enjoyable. Serena   
came back and chatted with me on occasion. We ate lunch together.   
She made me smile, and I was truly happy for the first time since   
before my parents' death.   
  
We began to date, which several of my coworkers found to be quite   
strange. They had been convinced that I... well, I... *ahem, blushes*   
leaned that way. Let me explain. I was in the backroom having an   
interesting discussion with my cohorts from the freight crew, when one   
of them accused me of actually liking men!  
  
"What?" I contended. "I most certainly do not!"  
  
"Prove it," he replied.  
  
"Alright, fine." I thought for a moment. "Make an advance towards me...   
I'll reject you. Will that be enough?"  
  
"It's a start." Then, in as best a sultry voice as he could mimic,   
"Hey there, cute thing. I love you..."  
  
I shrugged and grinned. "Ah, what the heck... I love you too man!"   
I embraced my coworker in a bear hug.  
  
And they've been wondering ever since.  
  
But anyway, back to the reason I'm here... I met Serena, and I'm sure   
you can guess the rest. One month after we had been dating, I decided   
to get her something to celebrate our new-found relationship. But   
wouldn't you know it, she got me something too -- a family-size bag of   
peanut M&Ms. I gave her a six pack of Sunkist Orange Soda.  
  
She pulled off a can of the soda and shook it up, then pointed it at   
me and pulled the top. The warm orange soda found its mark as I found   
myself drenched from head to foot in the sticky substance. I tore into   
the bag of M&Ms and began throwing them at her. Pretty quick, it   
turned into our own rendition of World War III.  
  
I failed to mention that we exchanged gifts in the store as well...   
needless to say, we found ourselves both sitting in the manager's   
office. I was slightly more uncomfortable...  
  
The next day I looked over at the remaining M&Ms I had. I popped in a   
couple of peanut M&Ms and smiled. They were sweet. Maybe I could   
learn to enjoy eating these things again... 


	2. To Catch a Vandal

Alright, alright... I had another set of events occur over this past weekend   
at work. It's been a bad week, I know. Nearly killed four times, yelled at   
more than I care to admit, and getting myself in trouble with just about   
everybody over AIM. *sigh*  
  
But anyway, here's the events as Darien, the cynical bagger, would have seen   
and handled them. And, yes, this is somewhat of a 'prequel' to Orange   
Sunkist and Peanut M&Ms... on the other hand, it's a little stickier --   
closer to TAFFy than WAFFers, as I would say...  
  
NOTES: OSHA is Occupational Safety and Hazards Administration  
If you are vegetarian, don't take offense -- this is fictional  
If you are openly fanatically religious and any comment about   
religion just "lights your fire," please pass up this story  
If you are Canadian, replace the word 'restroom' with the word   
'washroom' and add 'eh' to the end of every sentence  
  
Sit back, have a bit of TAFFy, and enjoy!  
  
  
To Catch A Vandal...  
PG  
Alternate Reality  
  
  
The worst kind of criminal is the kind that you can't for the life of you   
catch. This criminal is constantly defacing walls, doors, mirrors --   
nothing is free from their sense of "artistry." I am, of course, speaking   
of the Vandal. Perhaps my situation will help you to understand precisely   
what a vandal is...  
  
At the beginning of last week, I leisurely strolled to the front doors of   
the store. I sighed. Another day at work. I wasn't paying attention to   
the doors as I walked towards them, rather I was watching for cars. Cars   
are vicious, evil things that will take any opportunity to run over anything   
they can at any moment. They had tasted my blood, and apparently liked it.   
Ever since, I've had to keep on my toes to avoid the chromed killers.  
  
The doors shook as I crashed into them. I stepped back and admired the   
smear my face had created on the polished glass surfaces. Those glass doors   
were to be polished at all times. If the store was in crisis, you were the   
only checker there, and the line of people went down the aisle, back to the   
meat department, around the corner passed the dairy, and ended halfway up   
the cracker aisle, you were to drop everything and make sure that those   
glass doors had not a single fingerprint on them.  
  
I growled deeply and waved my hand in front of the sensor. The doors began   
to open... very, very slowly. I sighed. Those things needed to get fixed.   
I helped the doors open a bit faster and allowed the angry customers behind   
me to enter before I did. Why they assumed I worked there was beyond me.   
Perhaps they can just sense this air of an employee. If I gave off any airs   
of being an employee, I assume that I just hadn't showered long enough.  
  
I stepped into the doors and was immediately blasted with the friendly   
currents of air conditioning. The lobby was filled with carts; a good sign   
-- not many customers today. The second set of sensory-operated doors were   
held at bay from closing, courtesy of what appeared to be the meat   
department's entire ball of twine. I entered the store and took an   
immediate right. I glared evilly at the three younger boys stuffing candy   
bars into their pockets. They didn't even flinch. I shrugged and walked up   
to the service desk. The door to the right held the stairs to the employee   
break room, more popularly known as the "Living Death."  
  
People didn't speak of the upstairs break room... not since the accident.   
Come to think of it, there were an awful lot of things we employees didn't   
discuss due to "the accident." Golly, a full list would require an entire   
cartridge of printer ink. The meat department, I believe, was the first to   
deserve this title. As for the problem involved? I don't speak of it--not   
since "the accident."  
  
I walked into the door. I sighed. The time clock. My best friend and   
worst enemy. Currently, I hated this thing with a passion. Come lunch   
break and, eventually, the end of the day, it would become my lover. I   
sighed and punched in. My fingers worked themselves on the padded keys.   
The 'in' key-6-2-I didn't even remember my employee ID number. I could,   
however, trace the pattern it held on the rubber-buttoned, phone-fashioned   
number pad. I let my fingers do the job of punching me in as I reviewed the   
employee weekly hours sheet and the new work schedule. My forefinger landed   
on the large blue button marked 'enter.'  
  
The stairs leading into the "Living Death" were rather narrow, and covered   
with a rubbery substance. I turned at the top of the stairs and retrieved   
my apron from the coat rack. A set of lockers sat to the left of the coat   
rack. I had never been offered a locker. I wondered if anybody in that   
store was assigned a locker. I'd bet a day's salary one of those lockers   
housed the reason that we didn't speak of the meat department. I'd bet a   
week's salary that the lockers were there simply to satisfy some OSHA   
requirement or another. I'd bet a week's salary at my new job that the   
minute OSHA actually visited this store they'd be shut down.  
  
I walked out of the break room door and ignored the swarm of people at the   
checkstands in desperate need of a courtesy clerk. I was a day-time freight   
member, not some measly bagger. As I crossed the store to the backroom, a   
voice crackled over the PA system.  
  
"Darien, come to the deli. Darien, to the deli..."  
  
My voice moved in sync with the repeat of the message. I have been told   
that I capture the true spirit of a disgruntled employee. I believed that   
was a good thing, and was prepared at any moment to defend that position --   
with fists, if necessary.  
  
I poked my way back to the front of the store and towards the deli. The   
deli was home of what one would deem "hot" food, if hot were defined as   
"above freezing."  
  
The manager approached me. His brow was furrowed with the heavy mantle of   
walking around the store everyday. His impossibly-tight button up white   
shirt fit evenly amongst the large roll of fat that hung from his belly.   
The look of pure and utter "I am the boss" was placated across his upset   
features.  
  
Humperdinck is what one would deem a jackass. No ifs, ands, or buts about   
it, the man was simply a mule. He wouldn't budge if the county dam broke   
and a million gallons of water were heading in his direction. More than   
likely, he'd ask somebody to stop the water for him. Albeit, he'd still   
drown, but he'd be cursing and screaming at you for not having done your job   
properly all the way to his watery grave.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Managers had this way with words. A simple four word question was easily   
substituted for an entire phrase such as "I don't care what you are doing   
right now because whatever I have for you to do requires your immediate   
attention. I don't care if you cut your arm off in the meat grinder, this   
MUST be done before you go to the hospital."  
  
"Jus--"  
  
"Great, someone has written on the walls in the handicapped stall in the   
men's restroom. Get some of that spray stuff that you use and clean it.   
Prioritize man, prioritize!"  
  
Apparently, prioritize was going to be the word of the day. I swear, the   
man has a special dictionary in his office upstairs simply titled   
"Inspirational Words for the Uninspired."  
  
"That spray stuff," as he referred to it, was a set of chemicals produced by   
Deckers and so thoroughly mixed with water, that any amount of cleaning   
power that may have at one time existed within them was lost.  
  
I nodded and opened my mouth to confirm the statement, but found that he had   
already migrated passed me, as managers were so fond of doing. He patted a   
customer on the back and looked genuinely interested if the customer was   
"finding everything alright." However, when the gentleman opened his mouth   
to respond, Humperdinck had already moved several feet away and was ignoring   
the man entirely. I don't see why the elderly gentleman became so upset at   
Humperdinck's actions, as an employee, I didn't even get a pat on the   
back...  
  
At least, I sighed to myself, it was the men's restroom. Last time an act   
of vandalism had been reported, it was in the women's restroom. I had to   
clean that one up to. And what really scared me -- the message was written   
on the ceiling and in blood. I didn't want to think about it...  
  
I prodded my way through several customers and the litter of pallets that   
had conglomerated at the front of the store. The service desk, luckily, was   
not too busy. I had to give them my traditional greeting, otherwise the   
other employees might think there was something wrong with me.  
  
"Good morning."  
  
"Morning? @&$!, are you smoking crack or something? It's @&$!in'   
two-o'-clock in the afternoon!"  
  
I hate fellow employees. Many times, they are worse than the customers.   
Nobody understands my greeting either. "Good morning." It is the single   
most inspiring phrase one may greet another with. Those two, simple words   
granted the ability to start the day anew.  
  
As was also custom, I pulled my "tail" from my backpocket and proceeded to   
tickle the occupants of the service desk with it. My "tail," as everyone   
referred to it, was no more than a feather duster that I kept in my back   
pocket.  
  
Ignoring the flurry of assorted profanities flung flippantly at me, I   
retrieved the Thoro and the Pink Creme from underneath the counter. I then   
stole a roll of paper towels from underneath one of the checkstands and   
crossed the store to the men's restroom.  
  
As I entered, three boys were pushing magazines down their pants. I held   
the door open for them as they walked out and silently hoped that one of   
them would receive a fairly painful paper cut. It wasn't my problem that   
they were shoplifting. On the other hand, those three would have an awful   
lot of explaining to do come Judgement Day. I'd let them take it up with   
God.  
  
Upon entering the restroom, I was greeted with the customary pile of human   
fecal matter splayed in the center of the room. It would appear there   
existed another irate customer within the store. I sighed and stepped over   
the putrid pile of poo.  
  
The handicapped stall was the last stall in the bathroom. I swung the door   
open and peered at the penciled message written on the wall before me.  
  
I stared.  
  
I cocked my head to one side.  
  
I cocked my head to the other side.  
  
I grinned.  
  
I chuckled.  
  
I laughed outright.  
  
I fell over with laughter.  
  
I rolled on the floor with laughter...  
  
... right into the pile of...  
  
"CRAP!" I shouted.  
  
Luckily, I keep a spare uniform in the unspoken-of break room. After   
changing, I returned to the scene of the supposed crime. Scrawled on the   
wall in pencil, each letter standing two-inches high, was the phrase  
  
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't   
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.  
  
It was either a vegetarian or a religious fanatic -- or a conspiracy by the   
United Produce Company of Some-Religion-or-Another.  
  
This mess didn't even deserve to be cleaned by the glory that is a Deckers   
chemical. I spit on the wall and wiped the pencil markings away with a   
paper towel. Satisfied, I returned everything to its place and finished out   
my sentence for the day.  
  
  
  
I sighed as I approached the store the next morning. The door would yet   
again not open. I turned it off and cranked the darn thing open manually,   
all the while watching for the evil that was a car. I could hear the   
customers behind me muttering commentary under their breath about me. I   
wasn't even dressed in uniform yet. How could they even begin to think that   
I was a viable target for them to direct their anger for the store? Didn't   
they realize that I hated the store even more than they?  
  
I clocked in, grabbed my apron, and walked to the backroom. Have you ever   
seen that show with Bill Murray where he repeats the same day over and over   
and over again? Well, if that ever happened to me, I would definitely spend   
my first few months worth of days killing my management in every way   
possible. They just didn't know when to quit.  
  
"Darien," my manager's voice crackled over the PA. "Come to the deli.   
Darien, to the deli..."  
  
When I say that my manager spoke over the PA system with all of the   
intelligibility of an Egyptian raised in China trying to speak fluent   
Portuguese, I give him credit. The man holds the phone too close to his   
mouth. It's nearly impossible to force yourself to listen to the man, let   
alone understand him.  
  
I approached the deli in a similar fashion as the day before. My manager   
approached me in the same fashion.  
  
"Somebody wrote on the wall again... could you clean it up?"  
  
He left with a swift-footed pace that just reeked of "I'm going to go tell   
somebody else to do something entirely useless and then yell and scream at   
them that they didn't do it right."  
  
I once again gathered the chemicals, greeted the employees behind the   
service desk, tickled several of them, and then meandered my way across the   
storefront, dodging the cattle-brained customers with all of the fury and   
pace of Robin Williams' humor.  
  
Once again, I found the three young boys stuffing magazines down their pants   
and exiting the restroom. I'd do something about it, honestly, but last   
time I brought up the fact that we had shoplifters I got an ear-full.  
  
"Ninety-percent of all stolen merchandise in this store goes out through the   
back room!" he had said. "Do you know what that means?"  
  
I nodded as I watched two men wearing nylon over their heads walk behind my   
manager and out the back door, each with a cart loaded with groceries.  
  
"I'll bet you don't! It means employees are taking them!" he had said.  
  
I vaguely remember the rest of the conversation. It's amazing how one's   
head may continue to nod as one sleeps.  
  
But returning to the point at hand. I walked into the restroom. Luckily, I   
did not see a complimentary pile of feces this time. I sighed. At least I   
wasn't repeating yesterday.  
  
I threw open the handicapped stall and peered inside. Humperdinck must have   
been smoking something, I didn't see any writing. I turned to close the   
door and stepped back in shock -- right into the pile of feces that I just   
hadn't noticed before. I sighed.  
  
After changing my shoes -- yes, I keep a spare set of them around as well --   
I returned to the scene of the crime. The exact same handwriting, size, and   
message...  
  
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't   
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.  
  
The message was written by, as far as I was concerned, some vegetarian with   
a death wish. The vandal had decided that permanent marker would be a much   
funner medium this time around. Luckily, Deckers had been kind enough to   
supply me with the acidic chemical known as Pink Creme. The marker came off   
with a bit of elbow grease. And the day passed by yet again. I retired to   
my apartment and took my residence behind the computer monitor. The   
familiar buzz of a modem filled the apartment and I was suddenly in a   
different world. Cheaper than crack and a whole lot more fun, as my   
roommate was fond of saying.  
  
  
  
Pry open the door. Let the customers in. Growl at their complaints. Punch   
in. Get called. Vandalism again. Get chemicals. Tickle employees. Step   
in feces. Change clothes. Wash stall. Go home. The day was the same as   
the previous two. And the day after continued in the same fashion. Every   
day, the message was written in a new medium on a different section of the   
stall. I didn't know so many art supplies existed. What began with pencil,   
migrated to marker, pen, chalk, watercolor, charcoal, paint, toothpaste...   
the list goes on and on. And finally, one day, I lost it.  
  
"They scratched the message into the freaking door! It'd be no less   
impossible for me to wash that off than for Cher to get her singing career   
back!"  
  
My manager sighed and seemed to be contemplating over the matter before   
simply walking away and forgetting the whole thing. I ordered the new stall   
door for him.  
  
Of course, I had to take precautions now. This was my door. Nobody would   
be allowed to come near it, and I would be the one to see to that...  
  
The bulk of my days consisted of sitting on a stool in the corner of the   
restroom, checking the stalls after every time they were used. No vandal   
appeared. I waited, day after day, and no graffiti appeared on the grey   
door.  
  
And then one day, I fell asleep at my post. I was awakened by my manager.  
  
"What are you doing? The store looks like $*@#!"  
  
"Ten minute break, sir," I muttered. He seemed to let it go after that.  
  
"Well, when you're done with your break, clean this up..." he pointed at the   
stall. Sure enough, the thing was covered in markered lettering.  
  
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't   
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.  
  
I sighed. This was the last time. Sure, I'd clean it, but this was the   
end. My mind began to devise a trap.  
  
"Twine?" the meat department manager had asked me. "Sure, I can get you   
some twine. How much did you need?"  
  
"We have plenty of bavarian creme," asked the bakery manager. "Why?"  
  
And then the produce manager. "Rotten watermelon? Well, sure I guess so...   
do you have pigs to feed or something?"  
  
I grinned. Only one more item to look in to...  
  
I taped the large paper on to the stall door. "Out of Order," it read.   
Silently, I was hoping the vandal would decide to ignore the message and use   
the restroom anyway. My plan counted on it.  
  
I went home that night with a grin. Come tomorrow, this would all be   
done...  
  
  
  
The next day, on my way out of the apartment, I grabbed my roommate's set of   
walkie-talkies. I nearly forgot to clock in as I was gripped with   
excitement. I rushed over to the restroom, leapt over the complimentary   
feces, and swung open the door to the handicapped stall. Sure enough, in   
large markered lettering, was the scrawl of a fanatical vegetarian.  
  
Step aside, Mr. Grinch, there's a new evil grin in town...  
  
And with that, I set myself to constructing a trap within the stall.  
  
  
  
I believe the question on the forefront of my fellow employee's minds was   
why I happened to be carrying around a walkie talkie. And, of course, why   
the explosive sounds of flatulence echoed from its speaker. I ignored them,   
as usual, and managed to work quickly and adeptly. In fact, I had all but   
forgotten about my trap when suddenly a scream came from the speaker,   
followed by a heavy thud and then several lighter thuds.  
  
Track records were never a thing I really competed for, but if I were   
running one at that moment, I would have left every contestant eating my   
dust. I hurtled several of the displays with a jumping prowess only shown   
by an anime character such as myself, and finally skidded to a stop in front   
of the restroom door.  
  
I gulped. My heart was beating frantically. I had triumphed. I reached   
down to open the door. Before I grasped the handle, however, the door swung   
wide. There stood Humperdinck.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted. "Who was supposed to clean the   
bathrooms today?" He huffed his way to the service desk as I found my way   
into the restroom. Sure enough, my trap had worked.  
  
A man in his mid-twenties lay in a puddle of Bavarian creme on the floor,   
the marks his feet had made as he slid were hidden by his body. Three   
watermelons had landed directly on top of him, covering the vandal in a   
rotten red mess. The twine still held across the door frame, and my Walkie   
Talkie's mate was still taped to the post immediately to the left of the   
door.  
  
I grinned evilly and kicked the unconcious man in the head. And with that,   
my shift was over. Humperdinck couldn't screw anything up further, I was   
sure of that... and thus I left the store, happier than I had been in a long   
while.  
  
What happened, you ask? Well, I'm not sure to be exact. Apparently   
Humperdinck was going to release the kid until he started raving about the   
end of the world and that all carnivores would be utterly destroyed. I   
think it was at about that moment that the hampster in Humperdinck's head   
began turning the wheel.  
  
The police were called in, and the vegetable was removed from the property.   
He tried to sue the company, and ended up bringing OSHA down on us... but   
that's another story entirely.  
  
  



	3. The Third Man and the Monkey in the Midd...

  
The Adventures of Darien, the cynical bagger  
Chapter 3: The Third Man and the Monkey in the Middle  
PG-13  
  
  
Adults in general seem to lose their sense of cynicism. I don't know the   
particulars, but only that it happens. Case in point: speaking with   
Humperdinck.  
  
"Darien, your white shirt is untucked."  
  
"Yes sir, I realize that."  
  
"White shirts aren't supposed to be untucked, you know the rules."  
  
"Have you walked past those checkstands? Every last one of those female   
baggers and checkers have their shirts untucked!"  
  
"Yes, but with girls its alright. Part of their fashion..."  
  
"So basically you are telling me that if I had a good butt, wore a short   
shirt, and showed off my panties everytime I bent over it would be fine?"  
  
The manager smirked at me, rolled his eyes, and stifled a chuckle. "Of   
course it would... you have an awful lot to learn about life."  
  
Apparently I did have an awful lot to learn about life. It wasn't a week   
later that our third manager, herein after referred to as the Third Man,   
decided to quit in favor of a higher-paid job as a custodian at McDonalds.  
  
What exactly is a Third Man, you may ask. Well, a Third Man is what I would   
like to refer to as a "wannabe Humperdinck." Basically, the Third Man is   
one step above grunt work. One more person on the corporate ladder to have   
orders given through. This meant that I would not be hearing from   
Humperdinck anytime soon. As far as I was concerned, that sounded perfectly   
alright with me.  
  
But now that the only decent person I worked with had quit, what was I to   
do? The store had a massive search to fill the position as quickly as   
possible, which brought all sorts of freaks into the store to vie for the   
sought-after position. After all was said and done, the final decision came   
down to the Freight Crew Manager, the Frozen Manager, and the Accountant.  
  
The freight crew manager, one Drake Butikofer, had a significant amount of   
experience under his belt. By far, he was the most prepared and worthy for   
the job.  
  
Trevor Marquis, the frozen manager, was fun to be around. The man, however,   
was a literal blackhole of laziness. He sat in a chair in the backroom,   
consumed in a cess-pool of his own spit and drool, accumulated from several   
months of looking through Faith Hill calendars. Still, Trevor possessed   
more will-power to actually get the job done than did Janet, the accountant.  
  
Number-crunching and mathematic know-how aside, Janet knew less about   
running a grocery store than Kevin Costner did acting. However, she had   
nice assets in all the right places, so to speak. And, as Humperdinck made   
mention before, that's all that she needed apparently. She started two   
weeks later...  
  
The first words to escape the lips of the Third Man as she walked into the   
backroom were "This place can use a woman's touch..." Those words meant   
ultimate death to a man. When words such as those were spoken, a man might   
as well cut off his own privates and hand them to the woman that spoke them.  
  
The week marking the Third Man's arrival also happened to coincide with the   
week of my vacation. A coincidence, I must admit, not wholly without a bit   
of intrusion on my end.  
  
But back to the point, I entered the backroom the following Monday.   
Normally, I'm not one for fashion fads or anything, but I think my jaw   
literally fell to my knees. I looked just like every kid I ever hated in   
high school, with their pants hanging so low part of their knees were   
exposed. The backroom had been painted from wall to corner and yes, even   
the ceiling, in an array of pastels. Streamer found itself wrapped along   
the wall, pinned perfectly every three feet.  
  
Needless to say, I inquired as to the origin of such frivolities. I was   
pointed in the direction of Janet, who I had met only once before. You see,   
as an accountant, she worked a shift that allowed her to leave in the   
mornings before I came in to work in the afternoons.  
  
"Good morning Janet, did you forget to go home on time?"  
  
"No, I work back here now," she said, directing some of the members of the   
freight crew in hanging streamer.  
  
"Oh really? When did this happen."  
  
"When I was put in as the third manager."  
  
"You? As Third Man?"  
  
Now, by no means am I sexist... I'll say two words bad for my own sex before   
one about any of the opposite, but golly... a woman on freight? Wouldn't   
she break a nail or something? Alright, you're going to call me on that...   
um -- men drink a lot and are slobs. So anyway, I don't understand how the   
situation passed through headquarters. Apparently, Humperdinck's earlier   
words rang more true now than ever. What I wouldn't give for a good butt so   
that I could get a high-paying job...  
  
And thus my experience with the first female third manager began. I don't   
know exactly how to describe the situation other than we were "at odds."   
The largest problem I found when working with the Third Man was the fact   
that I was working with not a man, but the complete opposite. In order to   
make myself feel better, I began referring to her as the "Third Persun," the   
u in 'persun' to remove any denotation of 'son.' However, upon finding her   
not too upset about the name, I began simply referring to her as "Janet."   
Now that agitated her.  
  
The fact that Janet had never worked on the store floor before also had me   
slightly worried. In the years she had worked for the store as an   
accountant, she had been holed up in the scanning office. Thus, she was   
blissfully unaware of the politics involved in dealing with stupid people.   
A trait as old and enjoyable as the Greek origin of rhetoric, if I do say so   
myself. Few people can truly pull off an insult in such an amiable,   
friendly way and yet smother it in bitter sarcasm and cynicism. I am one of   
those few.  
  
So, despite the fact she knew nothing about her job, Janet posed as a very   
attractive Third Man. I did have to give her one good comment, however...   
at least she tried to understand what was going on about her.  
  
"Hey boys, what are we doing?" she asked one time, upon finding myself and   
my two henchmen throwing boxes around the back room.  
  
"WE," as I so carefully pointed out, "are condensing the ad wall."  
  
The ad wall is what I like to refer to as the "dumping grounds" of the back   
room. While it technically serves as a temporary storage area for all of   
the backstock we carry on sale items, it often turns into a storage for   
everything the freight crew doesn't want to carry in their own backstock.  
  
"What do you mean?" inquired Janet.  
  
"I mean that we combine partial-pallets and try to just get rid of as much   
of this stuff as we can, in order to make room for tomorrow's shipment."  
  
"Would you like to show me how it's done?"  
  
I sighed. Pointing to my two partners in effort, I said "Rigg and Shawn,   
show Janet how to condense a pallet. And while you are at it, why don't you   
show her what we are actually payed to do, as it is obvious she doesn't   
know."  
  
Since that day, the Third Man and I had a certain understanding, a bond if   
you will. I didn't bother the Third Man, and the Third Man didn't bother   
me. And that was exactly how things would remain, as far as either of us   
were concerned...  
  
  
  
I approached the front doors to the grocery store yet again. Another day at   
work. Another day to live the constant battle against the management and   
baka customers. Can you believe that customers actually get upset and take   
it personally when you don't carry something they want? I had clocked in   
and was on my way to the backroom when a customer stopped me. The elderly,   
I'm-your-guest-and-therefore-am-entitled-to-be-anything-I-so-feel-inclined-to-be\  
  
attitude led me to believe that this customer was indeed one of the infamous   
sunbirds.  
  
A sunbird is an elderly person from a warm-climate area, such as Arizona or   
Florida. For some inexplainable reason, sunbirds tend to gather in packs   
and hog up free-ways with their trailers and mobile homes. They flock to   
the milder areas for summers, and to make general nuisances of themselves.   
For yet another inexplainable reason, they liked to haunt the small   
community in which I lived. I don't know exactly how it worked, whether   
they brought the warm air with them or just filled the atmosphere readily   
with hot air, but for some odd reason, the sunbirds brought hell to my small   
community, heat and all.  
  
Sunbirds are like any other group of people though. Many of them are   
awesome individuals who will go the extra mile just to be polite. On the   
other hand, it is the remaining population that makes things difficult for   
all the rest of us.  
  
I walked into the store, only to have Noon, the Head Checker, call me over   
the PA system. "Darien, customer service on checkstand 2."  
  
What did she think I was, some sort of courtesy clerk? A common bagger? I   
don't have the time to bag groceries. And so I walked to the drinking   
fountain in search of some clear nourishment for my parched throat. Not two   
steps later, I heard the crazed sunbird's coarse voice hiss "Don't you walk   
away kid!" Phshaw! Like I was supposed to come back and help after THAT   
comment! Hah! I haughtily adjusted my feather duster and continued my pace   
to the drinking fountain.  
  
Another customer stopped me and asked for the wine section.  
  
"I'm sorry sir, we don't carry wine. The store owner does not believe in   
it."  
  
"Believe in it my ***! I want my ****in wine!" screamed the elderly man.  
  
"Sir, I believe you may have had enough already... perhaps you should take a   
nap and let it wear off?"  
  
"I'll tell you when I've had enough!"  
  
I had had enough and scurried into the backroom before the customer raised   
his cane at me.  
  
Upon entering the backroom, I found Janet sitting atop a stack of creamed   
corn. She wiped her eyes quickly, sniffled, and looked up at me.  
  
"What are you filling?" she asked.  
  
"Don't give me any of that crap Janet, you know darn tootin' well that I   
know how to do my job." Looking back on those words, it probably wasn't the   
nicest thing I could have said.  
  
Janet blinked twice at me before the tears began to flow once more. I   
looked at her inquisitively and climbed atop the stack of whole kernel corn   
beside her. The two of us sat in silence for several minutes. I knew   
something had to be wrong, not from the fact that she was crying, but from   
the fact that she wasn't telling me to get off my lazy butt and do   
something.  
  
Finally, she broke the silence. "My husband and I got in an argument   
yesterday. He told me that he hated me and that he had to leave. He said   
he didn't know when he'd get back. I screamed at him that I hated him and   
that he should never come back..."  
  
I blinked. Was the Third Man actually confiding in me? Granted, it is   
better for people to get their feelings out in the open in order to let   
wounds heal, but still. The Third Man was speaking to me! Woman-hater   
extraordinaire. The cynical bagger and stock clerk. Nobody wanted to   
confide in a schmo like myself. And then I realized something important.   
If she was confiding in me, there must be something truly wrong.  
  
"Janet? Sometimes people need to have some time alone..." I began, feeling   
incredibly foolish. "We men are idiots, to put it quite blatantly. We try   
to hide our own emotions by getting upset or hunting or whatever. You can't   
blame it on yourself. On the other hand, you can't blame it on him either.   
You'll just have to --"  
  
"Darien, come to aisle six please, Darien to aisle six."  
  
Humperdinck had worse timing than Madonna had taste in clothing. I glanced   
over at Janet, who had pulled a kleenex from her pocket and was wiping her   
eyes. I eased myself from the pallet of corn and walked out onto the store   
front, my thoughts swimming and colliding with one another in my head like a   
set of pool balls that had just been broken.  
  
I closed in on the offending aisle and met Humperdinck. "Darien, we have a   
slight animal control problem. Could you go grab a broom."  
  
I blinked twice, but hurried to retrieve a broom before I was asked again.   
I returned to aisle six, the aisle of Fritos, Doritos, Popcorn, and   
Condiments, and glanced around for Humperdinck. The man could quite simply   
not stay put.  
  
I muttered under my breath and turned to look down the aisle just as I was   
beaned in the forehead by a bag of Lay's Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips. I   
blinked twice and looked at the bag at my feet. My gaze then shifted to the   
aisle. A monkey hung to the chip racks, clutching another bag of chips in   
its right hand. It looked sheepishly at me and grinned widely, baring its   
teeth. The bag of KFC Barbeque chips hit me in the chest. My eyes   
narrowed. I didn't care where this animal came from, but it was time to do   
a bit of controlling. I shouldered the broom and strode onto the aisle.  
  
To make a long story short, and to save myself a particular amount of   
embarrassment, I waved goodbye to the monkey as the zoo truck drove away.   
How the creature had ever escaped in the first place, no one ever knew. In   
my opinion, I think we locked away a grizzled, hairy old sunbird that just   
went a bit loopy when he found out that we didn't carry his favorite brand   
of mayonnaise in the 32 oz plastic bottle.  
  
As for Janet? Her husband came back that night after work. She apologized   
to him and exclaimed that perhaps the two of them needed some time to do   
what they would like. They made up that night, and I got quite the graphic   
detail of the events from Janet the next day. For some odd reason, she got   
some twisted pleasure from the expressions on my face.  
  
I'll never understand women.  
  



End file.
